Lifeline
by ErinNovelist
Summary: When Peter Parker is attacked and captured by rogue S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, the Avengers are forced to come to his rescue. But protecting him proves difficult as the enemy will stop at nothing to discover the origin of Spider-Man's power. It only becomes harder when suspicions about him arise within SHIELD, forcing Peter to protect his identity from both sides.
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

* * *

_1. Don't be a smart ass (when there's a gun at your head)._

* * *

"Don't be a smart ass when there's a gun at your head."

That postulate of Uncle Ben's Blue-Collared Bible had been made in passing over a regular Thursday evening meal when the Parker family was crowded around the kitchen table. The sound of cutlery scraping against plates provided the perfect distraction as Uncle Ben discreetly slipped Peter bits of Aunt May's infamous meatloaf between the folds of crumpled napkins and grease-stained receipts of the pizza he had ordered for the two to share later on (once Aunt May had settled down for her remodeling shows). A carefree atmosphere had descended upon the household, broken by Peter's quiet snickers and Aunt May's musings regarding the daily news. A piece involving a local shooting in the ice cream parlor in Midtown was featured, the shooter apparently "aggravated to the point of assault".

"Guess he couldn't _cool_ down enough not to shoot," Peter had said as he scooped a helping of meatloaf onto his fork, preparing to catapult the food back onto Uncle Ben's plate.

The older man had shifted in his chair, fixing his nephew with a steady glare. "No one should be a smart ass when they've got a gun pointed at their head."

If Peter closed his eyes, he could almost picture his uncle's stern expression, lips pressed together in a thin line, a look of perfect disappointment. The words, nearly two years old, resounded through his head as he stared point blank at the weapon poised to kill him, still ringing with clarity, even in the eleven months since he had last heard his uncle's voice. Even if the finer details about Uncle Ben were fading, Peter knew he would never forget his father-figure's voice.

After all, the last message was still saved in his voicemail.

"Don't be a smart ass," his uncle would say, and Peter couldn't help but smile at the memory. It was the first rule in Uncle Ben's Blue-Collared Bible and had about fifty million subpoints. But Peter couldn't help himself. He might remember everything his uncle had ever told him, but that didn't mean he'd follow it.

His enemy reached around and grabbed a handful of his brown hair, stained with dirt and grime, and forced him to look down the barrel of the gun. Peter guessed that there had to be meaning in each near-death experience of his. Gwen was certain that the moments in your life defined who are, and Peter wondered who that made him. He had both seen and delivered Death, and, at times, he swore he had been dead. Regardless, this wasn't a rare occasion, and he still had a lot of life to live.

Which meant there was plenty of reasons to be a smart ass with a gun poised between your eyes.

"You planning on pulling that trigger any time soon?" Peter felt himself begin to smile, tears pricking in his eyes as it pulled at his dry, cracked lips. "I'm falling asleep here." That certainly wasn't one of his most spectacular comebacks, but at least he tried. Barton would be proud.

He heard the gun being cocked and swallowed, awaiting the bullet-a sharp stab of pain and then it would all end. It would be alright. He'd be with his parents and Uncle Ben (maybe he could even ring up a few of Captain America's old war buddies). After a moment though, he raised his gaze to meet the blue eyes that peered out at him with an eerie glow, piercing through the darkness.

"No patience," the masked man said. "You've been hanging with your Avenger friends for too long."

"You do know they're trying to kill me?" Peter snapped. "_Pretty_ _sure_… That or capture me. I personally prefer the second option, but what do you think?"

"I think you're arrogant. You think you're so powerful," the enemy snarled, "Because a secret serum gives you a few_ super_ abilities…. You think you're _invincible_... But you're _not! __Everyone dies_."

Peter let the smile overtake him, and he shook his head in amazement, chuckling lowly. "You act like I don't already know that."

"And they say the education system sucks these days," the man said. "You're young. You can always learn something new." He placed his finger on the trigger. "Lesson number one: it ends now."

"Yeah," Peter replied, narrowing his brown eyes in defiance. "You taught me that one already, remember? Keep up, old man."

"Didn't anyone ever teach you not to be a smart ass when you've got a gun pointed at your head? You've been spending too much time with Stark." Startled by the older man's words, Peter huffed out a shaky laugh as his enemy pressed the gun to the teenager's forehead. "You see, you think yourself invincible, but everyone dies, even you."

"_Go ahead_," he sneered, the hysteria settling in. His eyes flashed wildly as he glared at the man, ducking his head as if presenting a challenge. "It's not liked it matters. You've already killed the one person who did. What's some more blood on your ledger?"

"Goodbye, Spider-Man."

A shot rang out, Peter's blood turned cold, and the world descended into madness.


	2. A Special Kind of Stupid

**CHAPTER ONE  
A Special Kind of Stupid**

* * *

_2. You're smart, so don't be stupid.  
-If you're gonna be stupid, at least be smart about it.  
__-If you do stupid stuff, I'll always be here to make you smart again._  
-

* * *

It was a rainy morning in Midtown, and Peter Parker limped to school.

The halls of Midtown Science were empty as he aimlessly meandered through them, eyes turned down and chin bobbing against his chest. Pain jolted through his body with his movement, hot spikes of agony driving into his abdomen as he staggered to his locker, his conscious state wavering. His pulse beat out a steady cadence in his stomach, throbbing with each step while vertigo threatened to cease his barely functioning motor control. Rain pounded against the windows that lined the west wall, and Peter used the sound to ground himself from the threat of passing out looming over him.

His tousled brown hair hung limp on his head, wet and clinging to his forehead. A dark patch was draped over his ear, blood staining the left side of his neck; it trailed down the side of his face, soaking into the collar of his shirt. Peter tried his best to dap at it with his sleeve, but all he managed to do was smear the evidence across his skin in swipes of vivid red.

He pulled his hand away, staring at the crimson stains with something akin to confusion, until his vision turned foggy, a white haze settling over everything. He staggered forward, still seeking out his locker to gather his books for his first period (that he was _well_ too late for, not that he was aware…. Granted, he probably wasn't aware of much of anything right now). Suddenly, his world seemed to tip sharply, and he felt his knees buckle under his dead weight. Peter reached out to the locker besides him, trying to find purchase on the handle, but it slipped through his fingers. His hand trailed across the metal as he crumbled onto the white tiled floor, leaving a long streak of blood in its wake.

"..._Fuck_," was all he managed to gasp out as he stared up at the red painting he had left.

For whatever mildly insane reason, he had decided that he was in perfect shape to come to school today. Honestly, this wasn't the first time he had extracurricular Spider-duties before the eight o'clock bell, and he'd definitely come in twenty minutes late for AP Calculus before with mild blood loss, a broken ankle, and seven cracked ribs. This morning's knife fight in the alleyway off of 3rd and Broadway with eleven pro-wrestlers was really only a short step away from last week's incident with Aleksei Sytsevich and his truck full of plutonium vials. Either way, the bad guys were corralled and delivered to the precinct, and Peter lived to tell the tale, albeit a little worse for wear.

(How the _hell_ did the Avengers fucking do this?)

Anyway, Peter reckoned he was smart enough to determine whether or not he was capable of receiving an education on this wonderfully dreary day; after all, he was second in his class for a reason. After throwing his street clothes over his suit, he concluded that he was still walking, talking, and breathing (not necessarily in that order): ergo, he was perfectly fine to attend school today.

...This is where his uncle Ben would have told him that the smarts he had in science and math were shown up by his supreme lack of common sense.

(Uncle Ben would clasp his shoulder with a firm hand and chuckle softly under his breath. "_You're smart, Peter,_" he'd say. "_Don't be stupid._"

And then Peter would disregard whatever foolish thing he'd done and just take comfort in his uncle's strong presence and the fact that he'd have a second chance to fix things.)

Peter was smart, and he wasn't stupid. It was just that times like this reminded him that amidst everything that had changed in his life, a few and sometimes unfortunate things remained the same. Even while he had gained his superpowers, he could still get hurt. Even though he adopted a superhero persona, he was still Peter Parker, science-geek extraordinaire. Even when he had battled against gangs and guns, his mouth sometimes still got the better of him. And even though Uncle Ben died, the older man remained a huge role in Peter's life.

Aunt May still intuitively pulled quotes out of what Peter called Uncle Ben's Blue-Collared Bible. It was a mental book of blurbs, stories, messages, advice, and lessons that his uncle had gathered throughout his lifetime, a collection of all his experiences-mistakes and triumphs included, and proceeded to share with his only nephew.

"_You're smart, so don't be stupid_" was one such postulate. The bullet directly under it read, "_If you're gonna be stupid, at least be smart about it._"

It was just Peter's lucky day that he managed to neglect both.

For a brief and rather blunt moment of lucidity, Peter reminded himself that when he was practically carrying his intestines in his hands after a knife to the gut... then it was probably a good excuse to miss a day of school. Or at least be tardy till after lunch. If he wanted too, he could even blame the concussion he most likely sustained from the baseball bat, the brick wall, the steel-toed boots, and the old lady's cane (he swore she needed help crossing the street. It wasn't _his_ fault that _she_ reacted so unorthodoxically). He figured the conclusion was as good of an excuse as any (mostly because he'd used the "_End of the World! Apocalypse Is Coming!"_ last time).

Either way, Peter knew that now would be a good time to use his smarts properly and seek medical attention where he could find it. While his his super-Spider-healing could handle an ulna fracture in a matter of days and a scrape in a couple of hours, cuts reserved for dissection proved to be a little more difficult. But right now, he really _didn't_ have the mental capabilities to think just where he could go to get stitched up because everything hurt and the only thing he wanted to do was curl into a ball in the dirty hallway with scuff marks and age-old coffee spills. Vacantly, though, Peter recalledd that Gwen kept a first aid kit in the top shelf of her locker, and if he could just make it to AP Calculus he'd be able to get-

_Gwen._

The thought of Gwen Stacy struck a chord in his heart. The last time he had spoken to her had been on a cold, rainy day much like this one, on his front steps in Queens just after her father's funeral. There had been words exchanged, tears shed, and lessons learned. In the end, he pushed her away because it was the right thing to do, even though she knew it wasn't his choice. Even now, he wasn't sure how he'd done it because if there was one thing that Peter Parker was sure of, it was that he was in love with Gwen Stacy.

He was sure she loved him as well, in a deep and fulfilling way, one which tore at his heart every time he thought about it. If he could, he would spend every minute with her (between balancing his superhero persona and student life, of course). And that seemed to be his problem in the first place.

During the start of his junior year of high school, Peter had managed to go from the invisible outcast on the edge of the crowd to the impossible love interest of one well-known and wonderful Gwen Stacy. In his mind, that story was fairytale enough, but Fate had a silver tongue and decided that the "forbidden love" theme wasn't going to be the only part of the plot. So Peter's life became a tangled web (pun intended) of secrets, deception, love, and tragedy.

But this wasn't some sappy teenage romance. This was real life, one with super powers and evil villains of course, but the fact remained that danger was an integral part of his life. It couldn't be forgotten or wiped away, and when death was imminent, it couldn't be avoided. Danger followed Peter like a ghost, haunting his shadow with its ungodly intentions, and there wasn't anything he could do to prevent it. It wasn't like he could stop being Spider-Man because, by now, it was an essential aspect of who he was, and he wouldn't forfeit it for anything.

However, the fact remained that he helped more people than he hurt, and to continue doing so, he needed to push his loved ones away to keep them safe. Captain Stacy had taught him that. Like a moth to a flame, if one got too close, they might end up as cinders, and Peter knew he loved Gwen, and he swore he'd never do anything to hurt her.

(He'd already taken her father away from her. What more could he do?)

It had only been five weeks since Captain Stacy's death and since Peter had pushed Gwen away, saying goodbye for what seemed like forever. For some, it would have been as if no time had passed. For him, though, it seemed like the greatest stretch of all. Throw in a new job at the Bugle, a handful of new villains, and a few new heroes… It was a lifetime. During that time, Peter pushed Gwen away, and she tried to pull him closer. It was a never-ending game of tug-of-war, and it seemed like there would never be a clear and definite winner.

But if Gwen Stacy was a fighter then Peter Parker was a warrior. He fought battles for protection and defense, to achieve his goals and overcome his conquests. He lived and breathed to fight, and if that meant becoming locked in a battle of will and the matters of the heart, then so be it.

Peter knew what he was getting into as Spider-Man and the sacrifices he'd have to make. He had felt the cold sting of defeat too many times for comfort in his life, and he didn't want to face it again. He had felt it when his parents walked out the door all those years ago without any explanation or goodbye. He had felt it when he lost his uncle Ben, feeling the latter's heart fluttering against his hand as he pressed down on the wound, panic overwhelming him. He had felt it when he had knelt beside Captain Stacy on the roof of Oscorp, blood pooling around him and his words hanging heavy in the air like smoke in Peter's chest.

"This city needs you, Peter," he'd said and handed Peter his mask.

"You're gonna make enemies. People will get hurt, sometimes people closest to you," he'd warned and struggled to breathe.

"So I want you to promise me something, okay?" he'd asked, and Peter nodded.

A sinking feeling had overcome him, and he knew what the Captain wanted before it was said. "Leave Gwen out of this." Each word was punctuated with a sharp gasp of air, the last wish on his deathbed. Peter had made a move to protest, the words lodged in his throat, but he found he couldn't.

He watched Captain Stacy die before him, just like Uncle Ben, and he knew he never wanted to see Gwen like that.

"This city needs you, Peter."

_But Gwen doesn't._

Her father only wanted what was best for his daughter, and if Peter had been just Peter Parker (and only Peter Parker), he wouldn't have been asked to stay away from her. Captain Stacy wasn't stupid. He knew she'd have loss as a constant companion during the following weeks with frequent visits from grief in the mourning, but Gwen Stacy was made of tough stuff. She would survive losing her father, and she would survive losing peter.

The Captain, with his dying words, made Peter promise to leave Gwen alone, so who was he to argue?

"This city needs you."

But…

_You want to be a hero for people, and that's great, Parker… But Gwen… She's one of those people you want to protect, and the only way to do that is to leave her alone._

So Peter could. He would.

He did.

He never said it'd be easy though, and that was the hard part.

Oh, the webs he weaved.

Still, though, it left him in an interesting predicament. His guts were spilling out onto the floor, and there wasn't much he could do about it. Deciding to tempt Fate once more, Peter propped himself up on trembling hands and knees, his ragged breaths resounding through the empty hallway, and tried to gather the strength to stand. Gradually, he pushed himself to his feet, moaning all the while, before leaning against the lockers, attempting to wipe away the rapidly drying blood.

"_Peter?_"

Speak of the devil.

"Gwen?" he gasped out, eyes fluttering half heartedly.

A flash of blonde in his peripheral vision was the only warning he had before the scent of cherry blossoms and peppermint engulfed his heightened senses. While any other smell would have sent his head spinning and his stomach flipping, Gwen's presence calmed him down enough to register her actions. She slipped an arm around his waist, anchoring him to her hip, before looping his right arm across her shoulders. She murmured a constant string of reassurances under her breath as she dragged him to the janitor's closet, and if he wasn't in such a catatonic state, he'd have sworn she'd brought him there to ravish him.

Hey, a guy can dream.

"Peter, _Peter_!" Gwen called out, breaking through his silent reverie, as she gripped his upper arms to lower him into the corner of the closet. His weight gave out, and he collapsed into a heap of limbs and blood, causing her to topple over him. "Jesus, Peter…."

"Not Jesus, but God'll do," he said without slurring his words (or maybe he did, he couldn't tell).

"Peter," she snapped. "What happened?"

His vision burst into different fractals and colors as Gwen switched on the overhead light. "They had a nif-knife."

"I can see that. It looks like it was a good one," she said, kneeling beside him.

The air rippled around them with tension, but he was too lost in his own pain to realize. Gwen sighed to herself before dragging her backpack off her shoulder and plopping it beside Peter's prone form, unzipping the large pocket and digging through it. For a moment, he drifted away, choosing to focus on his breathing other than the situation he was currently facing, and it was like a curtain had been draped over him, allowing him to watch but kept out of sight. But then Gwen was touching his cheek, running a hand through his sweat-tangled hair, and he couldn't help but come back with a sharp jolt.

Agony nipped at the frayed edges of his nerves, jarring his cold, damp bones, and bringing him back to life. She lifted his shirt, and a sinking coldness settled over him. He concentrated on the pulsing in his stomach and the pounding in his head, trying to come back to reality. After a few minutes, his vision fixated upon Gwen's look of horror as she studied the slash across his abdomen. It started on the far left side by his hip bone, dragged up sharply before plunging down deep, cutting off a few inches above the epicenter of his right thigh. Blood soaked through his old, gray hoodie, staining the black shirt beneath it, and creating an unpleasant pool between his legs.

"Peter," Gwen whispered, and Peter can't help but smile.

"I'm alive," he said, laughing. Pain flared with the action, and he sobered immediately.

"This is bad," she continued, laying a hand gently on his shoulder. "This is really, _really_ bad… You need a doctor."

"Just… get it closed," he answered. "Spidey'll heal self."

"I can't just _stitch_ this up!"

"I need... To stop losing blood," he pressed. "You need to get the edges... Close 'em."

"Peter-"

"You've got a first aid kit."

"Peter-"

"_Gwen_."

"Okay," Gwen said softly, more to herself than him, and rifled through her bag until she presented him with her first aid kit, clasped between shaky hands. "Okay."

Peter watched her as she set up for emergency stand-by surgery. She withdrew hydrogen peroxide and placed it beside her before slipping on a pair of gloves. She pulled out her water bottle, and for whatever reason, Peter couldn't fathom in his current state. He merely grabbed the bottle from her hand and held it against his head, letting the frigid temperature ease his throbbing headache. Sighing, he leaned back farther. Mops and brooms clattered to the ground, and a bucket fell onto his torso, causing Peter to let out a pained gasp. He didn't have the energy to scream.

"I need that water," Gwen said, prying the bottle from his hands. A whine slipped from his lips before he reluctantly let her take it from him. Then he discovered what it was for.

She gingerly poured water over the wound, wiping the blood away with the sleeve of her cotton shirt, dabbing the edges as muffled groans echoed through the cramped space. Each pull to the injury drew a fresh wave of blood, trickling like scarlet teardrops down his stained skin. The water irrigated the wound, cleaning out any debris that might have been on the knife, but Peter knew that he was immune to just about every toxin known to man. He figured that out after the incident in Oscorp's biohazard room during the confrontation with the lizard-rat hybrids that Dr. Connors had left over after the Lizard Incident.

"You need a new suit." Gwen said suddenly.

Peter drew a blank. "...Okay?"

After she was done cleaning the wound, she held up a large needle. He tensed, but when the needle dipped into his flesh, he hardly felt it. It was just a pinprick of pain against the raging rapids of agony coursing through his veins, and the push-and-pull sensation faded to the back of his mind.

He dropped his head back against the wall, the handle of a broom digging into his shoulder blades. "W-Why?" he began, licking his lips as he fixed his gaze on the water bottle. "Why were you… in the hallway?"

She stared at him for a long moment, her needle poised to stitch again, before she turned her attention back to the situation at hand, falling into a steady rhythm. "You were late," she said eventually.

"I'm always late," he protested.

"You missed Calculus," she said, shaking her head sharply.

"Everyone misses Cal," he blurted out. He focused on her movement, the needle slipping between her steady fingers as she studied the wound with a grim smile. "Why can't I miss Cal? I don't…. I don't like it."

"It's ten thirty, Peter," she said sharply, her green eyes sparkling with muted anger. "Calc was three hours ago." He narrowed his own brown ones in concentration, trying to peer through the fog that had settled in, before he realized that it wasn't her anger that was glistening but her tears. Gwen Stacy was _crying_.

"Why were you there?" he asked softly, although they both already knew the answer.

"I was worried," she muttered, breaking the thread off with her teeth. "What'd you expect?"

"I thought because we were-" Peter's words caught in his throat.

"Just because we're not together doesn't mean I stopped caring," she said, cupping his cheek with her hand, and Peter's stomach sunk to the floor because for a split second he swore she was going to kiss him.

But then she took her hand away, and he was left with a faint tickle where it should have been.

"I can never stop caring about you," Gwen said.

_I can never stop loving you_, Peter thought.

She bit her lip in hesitation, her eyes flickering to his wound and her blood-stained gloves at a frantic pace. "Then why did you leave?" Her voice was soft but broken.

_Oh_, he thought._ I said that out loud._

"Yeah, you did."

_Oops._

"Yeah." She sat back on her haunches as she began to put the first aid kit back together. "You know, you could have died today."

"Everybody dies," he muttered under his breath in a tone just loud enough for Gwen to hear. "Some sooner than they're meant too."

She dropped the kit with a loud clatter. "You think you're protecting me by leaving," she said, ripping the gloves off and shoving them in a plastic bag, "Because apparently I can't get hurt when you're not around, but-"

"'M sorry-"

"I don't want your apologies," she said, running a hand through her hair, clutching the roots in exasperation. "I just want you… Is that too hard for you to understand?"

Peter's expression crumbled. "I-I can't, Gwen-"

"I don't know why you think you're protecting me by pushing me away," she spat, the tears slipping down her cheeks. "But it _hurts_, Peter! You're _hurting_ me!"

Peter obviously knew he wasn't in the best shape to argue, so he merely closed his eyes tight and slumped lower into the corner. Somewhere outside, the school bell rang in a shrill noise, startling them both, and Peter can't help but smile. He could hear the rumbling voices of students emerging from their classrooms and their meandering footsteps thumping against the tiled floor.

Wincing, he tried to push himself upright, his frayed nerve endings burning in revolt. "I n-need to go. I can't be late-"

Gwen shook her head, placing a dissenting hand against his chest. "Too bad. You're _hurt_, and I'm not going to have you bleeding to _death_ in the hallway after all my hard work."

"I-It wasn't that bad," he countered, realizing for the first time just how ghastly the entire ordeal was. "I wasn't gonna die."

She swallowed and pressed harder against him, her nails digging into his skin as she sought out the steady heartbeat, taking comfort in the familiar _bu-bump, bu-bump, bu-bump_ underneath her fingertips. Peter raised his own hand and placed it over hers, holding it with as much strength as he could muster. A silence settled upon them, and he could sense the confrontation looming over the horizon. It was long overdue, too. It had been five weeks since she walked away without a goodbye.

"I love you," Peter began, shaking his head. It was a tiny movement, as if he couldn't quite believe he was saying these words, and then he sighed and dropped his chin against his chest.

She withdrew her hand from his grasp and tightened it into a loose fist, reaching out for his face and dragging it along his jawline. "I love you too."

"But I can't be with you." Gwen stiffened and snatched her hand away, tucking it against her body. Peter followed her movement, reaching forward to cradle her cheek, and wiped away the single tear that trailed down her face. "It's not safe."

"I know." She laid her hand back on his shoulder.

"You could die." She leaned closer, their foreheads almost touching.

"You can too."

"That's the problem," he said and pulled away from her. All traces of pain had fled to the back of his mind, and Gwen sat before him in all her glory, her features crystal-clear and her sadness real. "… I could die at any time, and it's dangerous. It's _dangerous_. I can't protect you all the time-"

"I'm not some 'damsel in distress', Peter. I can protect myself," she said tersely.

"Your father couldn't," he said, and he knew it was a low blow.

"Excuse me?" Gwen's voice was ice, her glare a dagger.

_Leave Gwen out of this._

Captain Stacy's words resounded through his head, striking his core. Peter longed to take those words back, reassure her that she could indeed defend herself and he'd do everything in his power to protect her as well, but he couldn't. The words refused to fall off his tongue, and instead, he found himself lowering his gaze, staring at the wound across his stomach. Gwen's stitching had sealed most of it, and what remained open was already scabbing over. He could feel the familiar tingling of nerves inside his body that signaled his super-Spider-healing was at work, repairing the damage that could have killed him (_should've_ killed him).

Peter wasn't stupid, and he sure as hell wasn't at his brightest today. However, he knew well enough that he could make one smart decision, and this was it. He had to end it, once and for all, because he just couldn't leave Gwen with false hope for the possibility of second chances. Five weeks ago, he made a promise, and he intended to keep it.

"I _promised_," he said, exhaustion filtering into his voice. _God, he was so tired._ He was so very tired of trying to push her away, fight against his heart, and silence the Captain in his head, reminding Peter of the promise he made and how close he was coming to breaking it.

"I don't _care_. It's not _his_ choice," Gwen spat.

"But it is _mine_," Peter argued. "It is _my_ choice, and I choose to _stay away_ from _you_."

"Peter-"

"I can't."

"I thought you loved me," she said, and Peter felt his heart sink.

"I do… love you," he said, but the words weren't as beautiful and perfect as he remembered them to be the first time he told her. He closed his eyes, but the image of Captain Stacy laying in a pool of his own blood, drowning from the inside out, haunted him even from behind the lids. "I love you, but I can't be with you."

"And why not?" Gwen asked, and his hands dropped from her face. "Forget about my father and just tell me the truth. Forget about anything my father said to you, and just be… Just be Peter Parker… Why can't you be with me? Why won't you fight for me?"

Peter ducked his head, as if bearing a physical weight on his shoulders, something he could not lift on his own. He was so _fucking tired,_ and he wished for one desperate moment that he could take Gwen into his arms and never let her go and love her forever without a care for the world. But nothing could change it. He wanted to be smart and protect her, but he had to be stupid to do so.

So he said the dumbest thing he could come up with. "Because I don't love you enough.".

Her face paling, she shook her head in denial and pushed herself away from him. "You can't…." The words were lost to her, and she gaped at thin air, searching for the right response.

When she turned to look at him, she paused, unbridled fury flashing through her eyes, and he couldn't stop her. Gwen pursed her lips in a resolute expression and gave his wound a once-over. Once she was satisfied with her work, she threw her backpack over her shoulder and wiped the blood on her black skirt. Pushing herself to her feet, she reached for the door, casting him a sideways glance over her shoulder.

"You're a special kind of stupid, Peter Parker," she said, calling his bullshit, but it didn't stop him.

He let her go, the door closing behind her as she went. He didn't know where to go from here, and he didn't bother to wonder. All he knew was that he was going to chill out in the closet until the janitor kicked him out, soaked to the bone in his own blood and begging for a few hours of sleep. He also knew with nauseating certainty that he hadn't pushed Gwen far enough. She'd come back, guns blazing, and try to break down every single wall he'd built, make any promise he made seem meaningless, and go against her dead father's last wish.

So Peter closed his eyes and leaned back against the mops and brooms, thinking about how much he wished Uncle Ben was here. He remembered how his uncle would always reassure him after a nightmare or run after him when he made a mistake and the consequences were too high for him to handle. He knew that wherever his uncle was, he was safe and loved, but Peter needed to feel that now. He was losing everyone. Uncle Ben was dead, Aunt May was distant, and Gwen was out of his hands.

_Just remember, Peter,_ Uncle Ben would say. _If you do stupid stuff, I'll always be here to make you smart again._

Peter wished it were true.

Because he needed someone.

But was it worth it? To put others' lives in danger for the sake of his own?

Peter wasn't stupid. He knew it wasn't.

He just wished it was.


	3. Good Men Bleed Too

**CHAPTER TWO  
Good Men Bleed Too**

_-Whether they're good or bad, actions affect others.  
_-_Sometimes the right thing can hurt too._

* * *

Tony Stark was having a bad day.

There were many types of_ bad days_ possible for the billionaire, but his was ranking particularly high on the scale from _God-damn-it-Clint-is-stuck-in-the-vents-again_ to _Oh-shit-I-fucking-died_. Once, he had managed to strike gold and almost hit top and bottom of the scale when he got stuck in the vents with Barton, but in the end, the situation was rectified because apparently SHIELD vents weren't strong enough to handle the combined weight of the Iron Man armor and Clint's damn archery supplies. He also nearly won the lottery during the Chitauri incident and the HYDRA incident and the man-eating lobster incident and the giant ameba-that-almost-took-over-Sacramento-and-it-wasn't-his-fault-no-matter-how-many-times-Natasha-reminded-him-that-he-totally-should-not-have-thrown-his-taco-out-the-window incident… Anyway, while Tony may have come close to the _worst fucking thing possible_ many times before, this time around it wasn't him who might be dead.

It was Steve.

And this time it was most definitely Tony's fault.

At least, that's what he told himself. It's how he coped. Self-hatred was a genetic predisposition he could never quite rid himself of, a program that had sunk its roots deep into his hard drive and refused to let go. In his mind, there was already a special place in Hell reserved for him after all he had done in his lifetime, and it was probably burning brighter than a supernova (_ohgoditsbigthestarsarebrightthealiensareexplodingandthisisitI'mdyingit'ssobigI'mgoingtodie_).

People tried to reassure him that he wasn't to blame, or at least they didn't blame him. But Tony wasn't stupid. He was quite brilliant, actually, a certified genius, in fact. He knew that when he was away, having left the room or wandered down the hallway, they would discuss in hushed voices how he had screwed up, how he had failed as a friend, how he didn't deserve to be on the team. (He wasn't sure if he was even on the team anyway. He may be listed as an _Avenger_, but his file said _consultant_). No matter how much they denied it, though, told him there was nothing he could have done to prevent this, he didn't believe them. Because Steve was Captain America, their fearless and unbreakable leader.

And Captain America didn't fuck up. Tony did.

He should have hired a bodyguard for each of his team members, stationed security in the surrounding buildings, or planted trackers on each and every person he fucking gave a shit about. There could have so many more ways for him to amp security, but he got comfortable. They all did. They had thought themselves invincible, their leader invulnerable. They were all strong and capable people, after all, able to take out anyone who threatened them. But they had gotten cocky, and when someone snuck in right under their noses, they were caught off guard.

It had been a typical morning when Tony awoke after a rare night of sleep (due Pepper's constant pestering) to find JARVIS silenced, his AI having been shut down from the outside. All cameras were offline, the security protocols dismantled, and a sense of_ wrongness_ had settled over the tower.

Tony felt a wave of panic overcome him as he reached for the StarkPad on his bedside table and initiated the Tower's security. He pushed himself up on shaky legs, the sheets tangling around his limbs, and his mind was left staggering to catch up. He stumbled, almost falling, and kicked the blankets off, rushing out of the room and into the deserted hall. Honestly, he wasn't sure what he expected since everyone in the Tower had their own damn floor, so an empty room wasn't going to be a grand revelation or any sort of shock. But something was fucking _wrong_ here, and Tony couldn't explain it. Someone had dismantled _his_ security, hacked _his_ systems and turned off JARVIS, and it was _wrong_. It was all so wrong. No one could get past him. He had multiple safeguards in place for that specific reason, so if anyone did, he would still be safe. But he wasn't. Everything was _wrong_, and he had never felt more exposed.

"JARVIS," Tony called out as he looked up from his tablet, heading for the elevator after scanning the floor for anything that shouldn't be there or that was different or that was just _wrong_. (Wrong, wrong, it's so fucking wrong). "What's going on, buddy? Why were all the systems offline?"

"I apologize, sir," the voice responded, the British-accent bringing about a familiarity that he could take comfort in. "My server has been restored to an earlier save point. The current happenings are... not in my database." JARVIS almost sounded _worried_ and that did nothing but scare Tony shitless.

"Are the Iron Man suits on the premise?"

"Indeed, sir. Would you like for me to prepare-?"

"No, no, I don't need one. Not now, but…" Tony paused as he boarded the elevator, finger hovering over the button to take him to his workshop, but quickly decided against it and headed for Barton's right below. "Keep it on standby."

"Will do, sir."

When the doors slide open to reveal a disheveled Clint Barton, Tony wasted no time in grabbing the archer by his bicep and dragging him along for the ride. It was the first time he had ever seen the SHIELD agent startled. Clint gripped his wrist and twisted his arm violently behind his back, pushing him against the back wall of the elevator as the doors closed behind them. Panicked, Tony tried to push back, and Clint regained his bearings, dropping his assault and turning away from the genius.

"God damn it, Stark," he hissed under his breath. "What the_ fuck_ is going on? JARVIS isn't responding, Natasha's not answering my calls-"

"I turned the systems back on," Tony answered, trying to steady his racing heart. (_Fuck_, Barton would be the death of him). "And FYI, whatever's going on between you and Romanov is your own business. What happens in the bedroom stays in the bedroom."

"God damn it, Stark," Clint gasped out again, at a loss for words.

The situation was overwhelming for the both of them, and Tony flashed his friend a wry smile, attempting to lighten the atmosphere and calm both of their panicked states. Clint snorted under his breath and tipped his head back against the wall, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. The elevator slowly descended, and when the elevator doors opened, they were greeted with Bruce and Natasha.

(Honestly, it's like playing fucking Where's Waldo in his Tower).

"...This is Steve's floor, right?" Clint asked.

Natasha glared at the archer and Bruce's eyes flashed an eerie green. "Steve's not here."

"What?"

"Tony?" Bruce asked, low and stern. Tony studied his friend's face, searching for anything that might have triggered his partiel Hulk-out. "What's happening?"

"Hell if I know," he quipped, peering out of the elevator to scan the Captain's floor.

"Tony."

He jerked back in surprise when he caught sight of the far side of the living space, the ceiling-to-floor windows now scattered in an infinite number of pieces over the black tiled floors. Sunlight glinted off the glass shards, glitters of crimson dancing across the room and reflected in the team's distressed gaze. The entire room was in a state of disarray: chairs overturned, a table toppled over on its side, resting in a pile of splinters, and the feathers from Steve's grandpa-throw pillows strewn across the room like a fresh snowfall. Streaks of scarlet were visible beneath the mess, leading to the hole in the wall, a bloody hand print visible against the intact glass.

Tony jerked his head from side-to-side, searching for any sign of Steve throughout the room. "Have you checked the bedroom? Or the bathroom? Or his art studio?" he tried to ask, turning towards Natasha and Bruce.

Natasha pursed her lips in a thin line. "We've looked."

"JARVIS, give me Captain Rogers' whereabouts."

"Captain Rogers is not on the premise."

Tony gulped, taking in a deep breath, as his shoulders shook. His chest began to ache, and he distantly wondered if it was the extra strain on the arc reactor or if his heart really could seize in his panic. There didn't seem to be enough time between his thoughts and his emotions, and it was a struggle to form any coherency. If there was one thing Tony could pride himself in, it was his ability to keep a strong facade in the face of danger. But this situation was something entirely new. He wasn't in his element. For the first time in a long while, he wasn't in control. He didn't know what had happened, and he barely had the sources to find out what did. From here on out, he was in the dark. It was going to be purely speculations, and everything was basically unknown. And nothing he had could guarantee that Steve was fucking _alive._

"JARVIS, call SHIELD. Get Fury down here _now_."

"Of course, sir."

"Tony," Clint asked. "What happened?"

He didn't know. He didn't fucking know, and that's what _scared_ him. He didn't know, and Steve was gone.

"I don't know," he said, panic tinging his voice. The rest of the team stared at him with a mixture of apprehension and uncertainty, and Tony tried to form a plausible explanation, but he didn't know. He couldn't explain it.

Someone had come into their _home_, and one of their _own_ was gone.

And they didn't know.

None of them fucking_ knew_.

By the time SHIELD had arrived, it was already discovered that the blood splattered across the floor and wiped against the window was Steve's. Bruce had tested it. It came back as belonging to one Captain Steven Rogers.

It was stupid and pointless for anyone to assume Steve had simply left for his early morning run through New York or that he had conked out in the gym during one of his punching bag panic attacks (it wouldn't be the first time). No, the _great Captain America_ had fucking been kidnapped, taken from his home in the dead of night like some stupid stereotypical opening CSI scenario, and there wasn't anything Tony could do but blame himself. Because if he hadn't been cocky, Steve wouldn't be gone.

If anything happened to Steve, Tony wouldn't be able to live with himself.

It was already two hours and counting since they had discovered the Captain's disappearance, and efforts were underway to find the missing Avenger. Clint was surveying the surrounding buildings, gathering any possible security footage that might have caught a glimpse of the event and looking for any possible witnesses. Natasha was leading the SHIELD forensics team on a sweep through the Tower, attempting to draw out any odds and ends that Tony and JARVIS had originally missed. Bruce was on Fury's call, analyzing the blood found at the scene for possible anomalies.

Only Tony was left, sitting on the couch like some god damn useless bastard that didn't give a shit about his friend's abduction.

"Stark!"

A stern voice pulled Tony from his thoughts as he whipped his head in its direction, easily spotting the grim face of Director Fury. The older man stalked towards him, a bundle of papers in one hand and the other gripping a holster on his hip. "I need you to look these over."

"What are they?" Tony asked.

"Specs."

Tony quirked an eyebrow in surprise as he accepted the blue prints. "Seriously, you want me to develop something? At a time like this?" He scanned the content, flipping through the papers, his mind already processing the materials he would need to bring it into reality.

"No, you dumb ass. I need you to familiarize yourself with SHIELD software," Fury answered.

Tony chuckled in spite of himself. "Oh, I can tell you a thing or two about SHIELD software-"

"Keep your shit-talking to yourself," Fury deadpanned. "This is a program designed to access every mobile device, camera, computer, etcetera, etcetera, in the country." He gestured for Tony to follow him into the main living area to the large ceiling-to-floor windows. "It'll catch anything we can't. It's our eyes when the real ones aren't working at their… peak performance."

"Thank you, Shakespeare," Tony muttered under his breath as he looked over the schematics. "So you want me to what? Build it? Improve it? Which I'll do if you ever pay that consulting fee." He threw the papers onto the counter, heading to the bar to pour himself a shot of whiskey. He wasn't keen on pulling out the hard stuff now, but this was how Tony fucking dealt with shit like this.

"I want to cover all our bases," Fury corrected.

"So you want me behind a desk?"

"I want you to give us something to work with, Stark," the older man said.

"What do we have so far?"

"No visual, no confirmed sightings, and blood," Fury summed. "A whole fucking lot of it. These guys, whoever they are, worked discreetly and managed to slip by one of the most brilliant security programs this world has ever known."

Tony scratched his nose as he studied the papers once more. "Hear that, JARVIS? Fury likes you."

"Loud and clear, sir. My many thanks, Director."

Fury wasn't charmed. "This isn't a fucking game, Stark."

Fury was wrong though, Tony knew. The whole ordeal was a fucking game, a world-changing and heart-wrenching situation. It was a multifaceted game that had many different faces, its true objective buried under a cover of shadows where every shade was a different disguise, darkened by secrets and hardened by lies. That's what made the game so addicting. It had the richest winnings but also the biggest consequences if it all went wrong.

The game had two possible outcomes: win or lose, live or die. It was a high-stake gamble, and Tony knew how it was played. It was a battle of skill and desperation where one wrong move could cost someone's life, and one could only win if they survived. The bets were placed as power and prosperity, the opponents cast anyone and everybody. Sometimes one could lose everything but still stand tall, regardless of the death or destruction that followed in their wake. At other times, one could win and be left with nothing.

For example, they could find Steve, but the good Captain could be dead.

"Barton to Base," Clint's voice sounded over the comm.

Tony leaned against the counter, awaiting the news. (God, he felt like a desperate housewife). As Fury answered, he kept his features black, refusing to react to whatever Clint was relaying regarding the status of his search. Tony could have cared less. Let the Super Spy gather what control he could from the situation. Lord only knows Tony already tried.

"I'll send Banner down," Fury said after a short pause, and Tony raised his head in confusion.

"What'd he find?"

"Blood," Fury said with tired eyes.

"Captain's?"

"That's what Dr. Banner is going to find out."

"Well Jolly Green can analyze all he wants, but that's not going to help us find the Captain," the genius answered. "I might be able to help if you can tell me where Barton found the blood, but-"

Fury stared at him for a long moment, all traces of his previous fatigue evaporating. "About a five blocks north, in an alley."

"Think its Rogers?" Tony inquired, gathering the SHIELD papers and StarkPad in his hands.

"Not sure," the Director replied. "Chances are, it is. Then again, it's New York."

"So Rogers'?"

"Could be a mugging gone wrong… No body though."

"It's New York."

"There's no body."

"Check the dumpster."

"Stark."

"Calm your tits." Fury's lips pressed together in a resolute expression. "Fine, fine, whatever floats your boat. I'm already on it." Tony opened an app on his tablet and began to input the SHIELD software, setting the coordinates for the area around the alley. "Anything comes up, I'll shout."

"Or you could walk your ass down to HQ," Fury supplied.

"Don't think so, Captain Hook. That's gator-infested water."

"Stark!"

"Yes, dear?"

Fury shook his head and rubbed his face with his hand, as if the action could physically erase Tony's presence. (The genius knew that Fury was totally done with his shit.) "Just... stay here. Find out what you can. I'm heading with Romanov and Banner to the alley. There's a bit more than blood."

Tony's interest piqued. "What else is there?"

"Webs," Fury answered in a grim voice. "Barton found webbing at the scene."

Tony nodded. "You think it's Spider-Man?"

"Like I said, could be a mugging gone wrong."

"On whose end?"

Fury ignored him and turned on his heel. Tony watched him leave, up until the elevator doors closed behind him, and sagged against the counter with a heavy breath. He waited for the SHIELD program to load on his tablet, maintaining high hopes that Steve had been sighted in the area. Whatever happened next, Tony knew that all the resourcefulness in the world wouldn't save him if they didn't find something to work with.

It was perhaps, the only thing that he did know.

And that's probably what scared him the most.

* * *

Peter couldn't breathe as he stood outside of his house in Queens.

He could see his aunt May through the front window as she ambled around the kitchen, a dish towel slung over her shoulder as she prepared that evening's meal. She wasn't expecting him home from school for another three hours, but he could care less. His whole day had turned out _fan-fucking-tastic_, and he most definitely couldn't wait for the onslaught that would greet him should he open the front door. His head hurt, he had stitches in his stomach, and he just wanted to lay down on that ratty old couch in their living room that Uncle Ben hated with a burning passion and that Aunt May slept on every night just to feel closer to her dead husband. He limped up the stone stairs, nearly collapsing onto the porch once he reached the top, and sighed heavily. He adjusted the strap of his backpack and reached for the doorknob, when suddenly, a bright flare burst in the back of his head.

Before he could register what it was, Peter had whipped his head around, casting a sideways glance over his shoulder, as he scanned the street behind him. The usual vehicles that littered the neighborhood around midday were parked alongside the street and crammed into narrow driveways. A nondescript white van was rolling by, a woman was clutching an umbrella to her chest as she ran home, and the angry neighbor down the way was yelling obscurities at the stormy sky.

The rain was coming down in a hazy sheet, making visibility a bit difficult, but Peter squinted, searching for whatever had triggered the reaction. He knew it was a side effect from the spider bite, like his improved reflexes and super human strength, but it was a sixth sense he had yet to fully understand. However, one thing that he did know was that whenever it came up, _something_ was always there.

And that's what put him off... because whatever it was… It didn't want to be found.

Peter turned back to the house, the feeling fading as quickly as it had come (He wondered if it was a fly… It wouldn't be the first time). He pulled open the screen door, tapping the window to alert Aunt May to his presence, and for a brief moment, he debated if it would have been better for him to swing in through his bedroom window and come down three hours from now and pretend that he had just arrived at the proper time. But Peter's Moral Compass was strict, and already guilt was eating him alive at the thought of lying to his aunt even more, so he limped through the entryway and threw his backpack into the corner under the coat rack.

"I'm home," he announced in a soft voice, hoping that Aunt May hadn't heard him. But knowing the older woman and her vulture-hearing made him question why he even bothered. "I'm gonna… Um, head upstairs, do some homework and… stuff."

As he peered around the corner, he was greeted by the sight of his aunt seated on a barstool behind the counter, lips pursed in a thin line, even though he swore he had seen her meandering about the kitchen, fixing dinner, when he had first arrived. He leaned against the doorframe, an arm wrapped around stomach in a half-hearted attempt to hide the bloodstain, and shrunk under his aunt's inquisitive eyes.

"The school called," she announced in a flat voice, and Peter closed his eyes, knowing what had happened, and dropped his head against his chest. He had forgotten about that little tidbit in his planning. "You didn't show up to school today. In fact, you've been tardy seven times in the last two weeks."

"..._Ah shit_," he gasped out, and Aunt May narrowed her eyes in admonishment. "I… I can explain."

"I sure hope so," she said and clasped her hands together in front of her. "Sit down. We need to talk."

Peter slowly eased himself up onto the adjacent stool, clenching his eyes tightly against the pain as he shifted in the seat before finally settling down. He wrapped his arms around his stomach and braced himself against the table. He fixed his aunt with a sheepish smile, but she refused to meet his gaze, and he knew she was aware of his injury but refused to say anything.

In the two and a half months since Uncle Ben's death, his aunt had put on a strong facade and moved on without batting an eye, tending to the household (and Peter) while taking up extra shifts at work (even while Peter himself had secured a job as a photographer for the Daily Bugle). Honestly, Peter tried. He fucking tried _everything_ he could, but the older woman was determined to take the whole world on her shoulders, living as the breadwinner of the household as well as attempting (and succeeding) to raise Peter single handedly. But Peter could take care of himself, and even though he'd told her that a thousand-million-_trillion_ times, she never abated.

"Two weeks," she said, her voice low and upset. "I thought things were finally getting better." And _oh god_ was she mad.

"They are," he protested. (He was trying. Didn't she see that?)

"_Peter_!" she snapped. (Obviously not). "You didn't go to school today, and apparently, it's not the first time. Your grades are slipping , you've been neglecting your chores, and God only knows where you run off to every night. This is a lot of things, but it most certainly is not '_getting better_.'"

He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to channel his frustrations into the action as if it could physically soothe him, and blew out his breath. He knew what she was getting at, and it killed him that he was disappointing her when all he ever wanted to do was ease her burden. "I'm… I'm sorry," he whispered softly.

Aunt May shook her head in distaste. "Sorry's not always enough, Peter." She reached out and placed her hand on his elbow, squeezing it gently. "What's going on?"

"I…"

He wanted to tell her everything.

How he had stumbled upon the briefcase that started this whole thing, the golden R.P. engraved on the front, and led him into a tangled web of secrets. How much he missed the parents he had never truly known, and even though they had never really been there for him, he still felt like they were a huge part of the person he grew into. How often he remembered Uncle Ben and constantly wondered if the older man would be proud of what he had choosen to do with the gifts he had as Spider-Man. How he felt when he fell in love with Gwen and how, when he kissed her, it made him happy for the first time since Uncle Ben's death. How he watched Captain Stacy take his last breath and the only good thing Peter had in his life. How he came home that night to Aunt May's open arms and let himself believe for one second that everything would turn out alright.

It didn't.

His aunt pushed herself off the stool. "It can't go on like this, Peter," she told him. "Not anymore."

"Aunt May…" he trailed off, unable to compose the words for his defense.

She folded her arms across her chest and leaned forward so that her gaze was level with his. "From here on out, I'm issuing a curfew: you'll be home by six o'clock every night, weekends included."

"_What_?!" he cried out hoarsely. "No... You can't do that!"

"Then tell me! Talk to me, Peter!"" she argued back. "Where do you go? Who do you sell too? Who do you buy from?"

Peter gaped at his aunt, hands bunching the fabric of his hoodie between his fingers. "No, _no_, you…." His voice caught in his throat, and he was at a loss for words, his mouth hanging open in shock. His head was spinning, and he couldn't seem to put his thoughts together. His heart felt heavy in his chest, thumping against his ribcage in a quick cadence, as if it could possibly escape its confines and leave so it couldn't get hurt anymore. His pulse echoed in his ears, the blood pounding through his veins like a raging river intent on sweeping away everything in its path.

Aunt May was silent was a moment before she nodded towards him. "Show me your wrists, Peter."

For as long as he could remember, his aunt May had always been calm and collected, rarely raising her voice and always patient with him. He had never felt so isolated as she attacked him now, pulling away any excuse he had to offer, to find the source of all their problems. It probably made sense to her, Peter thought. She figured that if she solved the mystery surrounding his nightly escapades, then she'd have a normal life (well as normal as they could be without Uncle Ben).

Only she didn't _know_. She didn't know the extent of his secrets and how deep they truly ran. She just wanted her reliable and responsible Peter back, the smart and considerate person she had raised him to be, but Spider-Man had taken it away from her. Peter did his best, he truly did, trying to be reliable and responsible for the whole world with some enhanced reflexes and homemade web shooters, but it obviously wasn't enough. No many how many people he saved from harm, there would always be someone hurt because of him.

He just wished it wasn't his aunt May.

"Peter," she asked again.

She reached out to snag his hand, but he pulled away and nearly toppled off the stool. Twisting to regain his balance, a low whine escaped him and a flash of pain flared across his torso. Overcome with panic, he buried his hand under his shirt, finding his abdomen slick with fresh blood. He pulled it away from the wound, the crimson stain glistening on his fingers, and the world seemed to blur around him.

There was a gasp to his left.

Peter slowly raised his gaze, meeting Aunt May's frantic expression, and froze. A frigid dagger dug into his back, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up in attention. He wasn't sure if he could chalk it up to his Spider-Sixth-sense or just plain panic. Either way, he choose to turn and run, away from the kitchen and Aunt May and that stupid bar stool that Uncle Ben made when Peter was twelve and the bloodstain on the counter and the pain and the pressure and just _everything_.

When he reached his bedroom, he closed his door gently behind him and fell against it. His hand reached back for purchase as he slid to the floor, leaving bloody streak behind on the white wood. He stared at it for a moment, a single tear escaping the corner of his eye, before he leaned his head back, a soft _thud_ echoing through the tense and silent house.

If Peter had foreseen how difficult his life would become when he walked into Oscorp that day, he would have gladly spent one more night at home, talking himself out of the answers he so desperately craved to the questions that threatened to overwhelm him. He would have taken that second just to get a grip on reality and remind himself what truly mattered in life. All he had wanted was to find out the truth behind his parents' disappearance, and what he got was spider powers, a dead uncle, and his guts spilled on a regular basis.

The rain continued to fall outside as the sun sank lower in the sky, unintentionally illuminating the darkest corners of his room and the damn briefcase in the farthest one. The golden lettering glittered back, and Peter closed his eyes against the onslaught of pain it unleashed. He was hurting, Aunt May was hurting, and Gwen was hurting.

Uncle Ben once told him that his actions, good or bad, would always affect others.

Peter just never quite realized how much it could hurt them when he did the right thing.


End file.
